


overnight sensation

by centuriesofexistence



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Model Lexa, VSFS, singer clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centuriesofexistence/pseuds/centuriesofexistence
Summary: It's her third year walking in the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show; Lexa is quite at home among the flashing lights and glitter and lingerie, walking with a confidence few other models possess.This year would be no different...if not for veritable overnight sensation Clarke Griffin, a musician on a meteoric rise, whom Lexa has had a crush on since the first time she saw Clarke singing covers on YouTube. For the first time, Lexa will be sharing a stage with the object of her affection, and she can't promise those feelings remain a secret.





	overnight sensation

**Author's Note:**

> so, I couldn't resist a little one shot inspired by the Borns song, "overnight sensation." Enjoy!!

Lexa’s make-up station--a lighted mirror and a tabletop covered with a mess of makeup and hair products, sits toward the end of the row, allowing her to look down the long row of identical tables and watch the pre-show party. The room is chaos. The deep bass of some Top 40 song, cranked up to fill the huge room, pounds deep in her bones. Producers in identical suits and headsets rush back and forth, with nervous young assistants on their heels. Cameramen try to squeeze their equipment through the crowd. Make-up artists toss supplies to one another, and set assistants hoist massive, extravagant, wearable pieces of art onto step-ladders, waiting to attach them to costumes. And in the center of it all are the models. Glowing. Gorgeous. They give interviews, make faces at each other in the mirrors, snap selfies with stylists, catcall their friends, dance in their seats as their hair is curled and blown out. The mood is electric backstage, the party atmosphere painstakingly crafted to turn nerves into confidence and put genuine smiles on the faces of the Victoria’s Secret Angels, before the biggest show of the year. And it works, for all of them--except Lexa.

On any other day, at any other show, she would be among them, perfectly at ease. This is her third year walking in the show--she’s not one of the famous centerpiece models, but she’s an old pro, steady and experienced and beloved. Confident, naturally. Except today.

Her stylist finished early, leaving Lexa made-up, styled, photo-ready, and the idle moments before they get into position have allowed her thoughts to creep in and twist her stomach into knots. Getting desperate, she digs into the Pink branded bag gifted to her a few days previously and finds her phone. Pushing her earbuds into her ears, she pulls up the song, presses play, and turns up the volume until the soulful sounds of a girl and a guitar drown out the noise all around her.

_"Always fall asleep when you're waking, doing the math on my hands...counting the hours to the time zone you're at was an unseen part of the plan..."_

Lexa closes her eyes and breathes deeply, slouching lower in her chair as the singer’s voice washes over her. This is one of her all-time favorite songs. It’s a cover, performed live at a tiny, impromptu show over six months ago, recorded on a cell phone and posted to YouTube. Every so often, grainy screaming from the audience drowns out the music, but even still, it’s well-worth listening to. Since the day she discovered it, it’s been her go-to relaxation song, settling her nerves and steadying her heart.

Until today.

Lexa’s nerves have nothing to do with the show, or the flashing cameras, or the other girls, or even the lingerie she wears. No; the true irony of the situation is that the butterflies flitting between the knots in her stomach stem from the fact that the voice in her ear, the same voice that usually calms her, is singing live, right now, out on stage, warming up the crowd as one of the headlining performances of this year’s fashion show.

The audience members in the video scream again: “Clarke, we love you!”

Clarke Griffin. In just under two years, she’d moved from playing shows at local bars to the opening act on a pop star’s world tour. She recently released her first album that is still climbing the charts. She’s gotten airtime featuring on songs with RnB singers, she’s performed with rock bands, she’s announced her own tour to begin early next year--she’s exploded to the forefront of public consciousness. But Lexa has been following her career since its inception, since the day she stumbled on a video of one of Clarke’s early shows in the back of a bar and fallen irrevocably in love with the pretty, smirking blonde with the lilting golden voice and the ability to belt out everything from pop to country to indie rock, with a special passion for live covers.

Abruptly, Clarke’s voice disappears and the thrumming bass of the pump-up music returns when one of her earbuds is pulled out--Lexa’s eyes fly open to reveal the culprit to be Anya, her best friend, leaning against Lexa’s make-up table and grinning.

“Ready?” she asks, eyes dancing.

Anya certainly is: she stands confidently in her heels and lingerie, a bodice and cape detailed with the jewel tones of the Tibetan flag, designed specifically for her in keeping with the international theme of the show’s opening segment.

“You look great,” Lexa tells her.

“You’re almost as great,” Anya teases, but Lexa can see the approval in her eyes as she appraises Lexa’s two piece, red-white-blue outfit: for the Australian flag, as a more prominent model had been gifted the American one. Then Anya’s gaze alights on the phone in Lexa’s lap, which she had quickly flipped over to hide the screen at Anya’s arrival. “What were you listening to? Come join the festivities with everyone else!”

“Just focusing,” Lexa answers, with a dismissive laugh.

Anya had teased her relentlessly when she had first found out about Lexa’s crush on an unknown singer that she had never met; she and Lexa had delightfully followed Clarke’s rise to popularity, and when the news broke last month that Clarke would be performing at the show, Anya had howled with laughter, despite Lexa’s protests.

“You fly all over the world,” Anya had cried, panting between peals of laughter. “You look supernaturally attractive for a living, you’re a Victoria’s Secret regular, men are terrified of you, and you wear lingerie with the same comfort most people wear sweatpants--and you’re going to walk onto that runway blushing like a school girl and desperately trying to hide how in love you are!” It had gone on all night. “This will be amazing. Best show ever.”

Since that night, Anya has reigned it in, somewhat. Lexa receives only quirked eyebrows and knowing smirks whenever the topic comes up now, but in truth, those are just as bad. No matter how much she tries to hide her long-distance feelings for this girl, Anya can see right through her--as she’s doing now, noting Lexa’s nervously drumming fingertips.

“She’s performing right now,” Anya says, voice low and angelic. “Warming up the crowd. They love her.” Her tongue dances across the edges of her teeth, and she adds, “I saw her briefly while you were getting your makeup finished, by the way.”

Lexa hesitates, then takes that bait. “What was she wearing?”

"Leather jacket and a short black skirt."

" _Damn it_ ," she groans.

"A lesbian surrounded by 6-foot-tall models in lingerie," Anya says, shaking her head. "And you've got a debilitating thing for a singer in a skirt.”

Lexa shoots her friend a glare. "Clarke Griffin is gorgeous," she snaps, blushing. "But I'll be okay. Just keep my eyes forward."

"And not down at her legs."

"You're not helping."

"I'm not trying to."

"You know, I really value your friendship."

"Do you?"

"No, not right now."

Anya gives her a wolfish grin. "Well then, I don’t mind reminding you that she’s performing that hot and heavy RnB jam with Miguel later on..."

"Fuck _off!"_

Before Anya can give Lexa yet another reason to be nervous, she’s granted momentary reprieve by the booming call of the show’s director: “Angels, standby, here we go!”

The magic words. A new energy, a new adrenaline floods through her and the impending start of the show wipes away all thoughts and nerves. Lexa and Anya share genuine, giddy smiles as they jump to their feet and hurry to join the parade of beautiful women heading for the side of the stage. Production assistants help Lexa attach the array of silver seven-pointed stars to the back of her Australian-inspired costume. The army of producers buzz up and down the line of models, double-checking the line order, approving costumes and wings, ensuring that everything is exactly as planned and rehearsed. They’re far more nervous than the girls--they call to each other in rapid-fire code, voices sharp and panicked, while the models bounce in their heels and flashing blazing white grins at each other. The music on stage starts; the lights go up; fireworks explode across the floor to ceiling screens, and then the show begins.

 

*

 

The first walk of the night is a blur: it’s exactly as Lexa rehearsed, exactly as she’s done a thousand times before on other runways, except now, the cheering crowd and delirious mashup of rock and pop music has imbued her with a new energy. Lexa Woods isn’t known for the girlish fervor of so many of the Victoria’s Secret Angels; she’s instead perfected a more commanding, intimidating, sultry walk and look, so the crowd loves to see her smile as she walks down the glittery runway, they love to see her wink and reach for Anya as the two pass each other. Up, strike a brief pose, down, and then she’s back, stepping off the stage, breathless and laughing into the embrace of the other models. The production assistants pull the starry part of her costume off her back and send her to the changing room immediately so that she can prepare for the next segment.

One down, three to go; it’s effortless, and for a moment, she forgets her original nerves.

A true professional, she gets changed quickly, and then steps out of the changing room wearing her favorite look of the night: lacy black and white lingerie and something resembling a cropped black blazer, with sheer, black thigh-high stockings strapped to the garter and six-inch heels.

Something she might actually wear... on a special occasion. For the right person.

All around her, designers have risen to the glamorous, upscale theme with gorgeous jewel-toned lingerie and gold and silver accents. This, Lexa already knows, will be a particularly iconic and celebrated segment. As the producers call for the girls to line up again, Lexa looks around, relishing the moment, and meets Anya’s eyes as they head for the side of the stage.

Anya’s smirking at her, eyes dark and twinkling. For a moment, Lexa just stares back, nonplussed, until she hears it.

_“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Clarke Griffin to the stage!”_

The first notes of Clarke’s most popular single meet her ears, and then comes her voice. Beautiful, breathy, lilting, and live--Lexa’s mind goes blank, her heart flips, goosebumps rise all over her body and fear shoots up through her chest, fresh and hot and overwhelming. Clarke’s song immobilizes her for the first verse, and as Clarke builds into the chorus, Lexa hears the producers:

“Okay, three, two, one...here we go!”

The first model struts out--every fifteen seconds, the producers nod and the next Angel in line disappears into the glitter and stage lights. Lexa is no closer to seizing control of her thoughts as the line ahead of her dwindles; before she realizes it, she’s at the front of the line, staring blankly at the producer.

“Here we go, Lexa! And...you’re on!”

Thank god she’s done this before. Given the green light, Lexa’s body works independently of her mind, carrying her out onto the runway. Graceful, elegant steps, languidly swinging hips, long legs and long strides covering a distance she is not prepared to cover. She smiles, automatically, and the crowd calls her name and clamors for her attention.

Instead, her eyes are fixed forward, because at the end of what has suddenly become a mile-long, pink and silver runway, stands Clarke Griffin, with her back to Lexa as she sings. All Lexa can see against the light is the blonde hair, the leather jacket, the shimmering black skirt that shows off perfect legs. Clarke is in her element. She belts out her most popular song, a summery tune about road trips and partying and all of the beautiful friends she loves so much; with her infectious joy as she performs, she’s the darling of the crowd and the Angels alike. They move to the beat as they walk, they dance around her, they reach for her hands and beam at her as she sings to each of them as they pass. Clarke has all the style of a seasoned star. Lexa feels quite the spectator in it all, until the moment when Clarke turns back between verses and Lexa realizes they’re walking towards each other.

Their eyes meet first.

Clarke’s breathing hard, recovering before the next verse. With all the wariness of a deer in headlights, Lexa stares straight through Clarke, her features frozen as she wills herself not to look down, not to break, because the moment she admits how gorgeous Clarke looks is the moment when Lexa’s attraction to her will shine out of her face like a beacon. brighter than all the camera flashes in the room, and millions of people watching the show at home will know. Clarke, on the other hand, isn’t a model, she doesn’t have the camera on her, and her back is to the crowd--she doesn’t need Lexa’s stoicism. As Lexa walks toward her, Clarke’s lips twitch, one corner rising in a crooked little half-smile, a private smile just for Lexa. Her eyes slide down Lexa’s body, luxuriating over the endless skin and her smooth curves, down over Lexa’s chest, her flat stomach, the black and white lace panties. The tops of the thigh-highs are where Clarke gets stuck. She stares at Lexa’s long legs and the crooked smile falls away, instead replaced by a slack jaw and lips forming a perfect round, _“Oh.”_

Something hot and overwhelming rises up in Lexa’s chest again, and this time, it has nothing to do with fear. She raises her chin ever so slightly, meets Clarke’s gaze again, and smiles.

It’s as if Clarke forgets she’s on stage: she’s still staring at Lexa as the music swells for the next verse, and she flings the microphone to her mouth at the last possible second to belt out the next words, her eyes wide. With a shake of her head, she recovers as Lexa reaches her and by the time she turns to the crowd, she’s back in full entertainer mode, the moment between them broken. As she had with the other models, Clarke reaches for Lexa’s hand--unlike the other models, however, she goes beyond a casual brush. Lexa and Clarke tangle their fingers together and Clarke, giving Lexa a wide smile, escorts her down the runway as she sings.

When Lexa remembers it’s a performance, and that they’re both performers, she manages to find her breath; luckily, her step stays intact as the two women reach the end of the runway. There’s something electric in Clarke’s touch, even just through their fingers, something so potent that Lexa almost regrets letting go when Clarke stops short of the end of the runway, allowing her to walk forward and pose alone. Even with hundreds of cameras flashing in front of her, her thoughts stay on the girl behind her; when she turns back, Clarke’s waiting, ignoring the next girl coming up behind her. She reaches for Lexa’s hand again. Facing the crowd, there’s hardly a chance for Clarke to check Lexa out again the way she did the first time, but nonetheless, her eyes flick down for just a half second.

Lexa, on the other hand, now has her back to the crowd. Suddenly inspired, she follows Clarke’s lead: she lets her eyes drift down, drinking in the woman before her. Anya’s simple description of a leather jacket and a short black skirt doesn’t do Clarke Griffin justice. She looks every inch the rebel musician, sexy and intimidating and reckless, with more allure in the way she smiles at Lexa than any of the models around them have in their entire walk down the runway.

For a sliver of a moment before their hands touch, Lexa thinks about how far gone she is--then their fingers share that shock again and the thought is gone, replaced by an empty, hazy, blissful buzzing.

Clarke leads her only a few more steps before releasing her again, turning to continue her performance, but it feels like a lifetime. Lexa can hardly catch her breath; her body returns to autopilot, overwhelmed by the warm blood rush of adrenaline and attraction and nerves. Sometime on the walk back, she locks eyes with Anya, who walks the other way. Her best friend throws her head back and laughs. Lexa laughs back, for it’s all she can do. The audience loves it, thinks it’s all part of the performance. If they only knew.

 

*

 

Two segments down, two more to go. The aftermath of the walk with Clarke is a breathless rush. Whatever electricity they had shared rushes through Lexa’s veins at a million miles per hour, making her shaky, making her lose focus, and all she can do to counteract it is shut her thoughts down and go through the motions, getting into the next outfit as quickly as possible and following directions from the producers. Clarke won’t be on stage for the next walk, thank god. A rock band from England plays for this segment at the beginning of the catwalk, so the models have the stage to themselves to show off their “Fire and Ice” themed lingerie: Lexa wears a deep red bustier and lace set, with “wings” styled to flow behind her like flames. Simple enough, the way everything is simple after the previous walk when she almost revealed to all the world just how ridiculously attracted she is to Clarke Griffin.

Clarke herself is nowhere to be seen. Lexa is used to the artists mingling with the Angels between segments in previous shows, and she’s sure Clarke is doing exactly this somewhere, but she can’t bring herself to search the room for the girl; she barely made it out of the walk alive, she doesn’t need to continue throwing her night into chaos. She sets her focus totally on the next segment.

A seasoned professional, she executes her most commanding stride, every step perfectly placed and her eyes swirling with that trademark darkness as she walks. Her body strains at the seams with her newfound energy, but Lexa keeps it under control as she glides up and down the runway. Before she knows it, it’s over. She steps off the stage, the assistants pull the wings off her back, and send her on her way with the rest of the models. Three down, one to go.

Easy.

Except she should know that nothing is ever that easy.

_“Hey, Lexa.”_

Lexa stops and turns back at the sound of her name--but none of the other Angels or any of the production assistants look her way or even seem capable of whispering right now, they’re so energetic. She stands perfectly still in the middle of the hallway and they stream past her unceasingly, and after a moment, Lexa thinks she might have imagined the sound. She needs to get back; she’s not walking in the next segment--the Pink line and segment is reserved for the newer, younger models, for a younger audience--so she has more than a few minutes to change before the final segment, but she hates to feel rushed.

But just as she takes another step forward, she notices it: a partially ajar door, and a light on in the electrical room beyond.

Something nameless and inexplicable draws her towards that door. She picks up the scent of perfume first. How she can tell it apart amid the dozens of different scents worn by the models around her, she’ll never know, but the musky, warm, honeyed scent draws her into the room. It’s like a map, leading her to the treasure within: Clarke.

Clarke stands against the opposite wall, arms across her chest and eyes fixed on her feet as she waits. When she looks up at the sound of Lexa’s entrance, the smile that breaks over her face is more beautiful than every sunrise Lexa has ever watched from a plane. Soft pink skies, golden clouds, and the fuzzy azure curve of the earth have nothing on Clarke Griffin. The sight knocks the breath out of her.

“Hi,” Clarke says, weakly.

“Hi,” is all Lexa can manage, before she kicks the door shut behind her and the two women meet in the center of the room, collapsing into each other, chest to chest as they press their lips together.

Lexa sighs into the kiss like she’s tasting rain after months in the desert. Her fingers come up to tangle in Clarke’s hair, keeping her there, keeping her close. Clarke does the same at Lexa’s waist, holding their bodies together.

“God,” Clarke sighs into the kiss. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Shhhh.” Lexa can’t get enough of her, moving to kiss up her jawline and mumbling against her skin as she goes. “I’ve missed you too. But let’s not talk about that, just...”

Just keep kissing. Clarke pulls Lexa’s lips back to hers and angles her head, kissing Lexa deeper, more desperately, working her tongue into Lexa’s mouth as if the taste of her will erase the pain of the weeks between this and the last time they were together like this. When you live your life on different roads, these moments together are more valuable than gold and they pass far too quickly. Clarke and Lexa could kiss for hours inside this little room, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Real life outside the room does have some hold on them, though. It’s only when Lexa loses track of time that she realizes they’ll be waiting for her to get into her next outfit, and if she doesn’t appear soon, people will start looking. So, reluctantly, she pulls away, nipping at Clarke’s lower lip as she goes.

“If you don’t stop, we’ll never make it out of here,” Lexa says, panting.

Clarke grins at her, then steals another quick kiss. “I don’t mind. I’ve missed you,” she says again.

“I’ve missed you too.”

“Two full months...never again.”

“I promise it won’t happen again. I’m taking time off after this.”

Clarke’s eyes sparkle. “Are you excited to see my shows live, instead of watching them on YouTube?”

“What?” Lexa frowns, and then she remembers her phone. “Wait, you looked--” Clarke pulls Lexa’s cell phone out of her back pocket, waving it teasingly.

“You took my phone?” Lexa says with an indignant laugh. She grabs for it, but Clarke swings it out of reach and turns on the display in one deft motion. Her fingers fly across the screen, tapping in the correct passcode, and when the phone opens up, they both see the YouTube video of Clarke on the screen, still paused from when Anya had interrupted Lexa earlier.

“You know my passcode?” Lexa asks, even more indignant.

“Yes, Lexa, I know my own birthday,” Clarke teases.

Lexa’s cheeks turn red. “I just...I really like that song.”

“Good,” Clarke murmurs, her voice lower, sweeter now. “I sang it for you. Most of my covers are. I was missing you so bad back then--remember, you were in Athens, I was in Los Angeles? Our schedule was always off.”

“I remember,” Lexa groans. “I got so little sleep.”

“So did I. The pictures helped, though...” Trailing off, Clarke pulls back a little bit, looking down at Lexa’s body. The curves of her breasts and the deep valley of her cleavage, paired with the sheer, dainty, barely-there panties that cling to her hips...the breath whooshes out of Clarke’s chest involuntary. “But the pictures don’t do you justice. You’re art.” She kisses Lexa’s collarbone. “Art that needs to be appreciated...” she moves down to press her lips just above the cups of the bra, “...In person.”

“You are,” Lexa says, pressing a kiss to Clarke’s forehead, because if she were to look down and see the way Clarke’s perfect body is moving against hers, the underwear she just wore in front of the world is going to end up on the floor. She swallows hard, trying to stay sane. “I barely kept it together out there.”

Clarke laughs. “You? You looked perfectly cool and composed; you always do. I forgot the words to my own song when I saw you.”

Lexa tilts Clarke’s chin up so their eyes can meet again. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Lexa.”

They could stay that way forever, pressed forehead to forehead, hands gliding over skin to relearn what was lost while they were apart. Clarke and Lexa have been together for nearly a year, but they’ve been separated for the better part of it, Clarke with her music and Lexa with her modeling contracts. When they can steal weekends and vacations together, they take every opportunity available to them, and the first several hours of every reunion is a quiet affair, made up of breathy sighs and quiet moans and whispered affirmations of love and trust and longing. The talking comes later, once they’ve learned each other once more. But this, right now, in a tiny electrical closet with the rest of the world waiting for both of them outside, is not enough, and it burns.

“We have to go,” Clarke sighs at last, reluctant, hating every word. “But the show is almost over, at least.”

“One more segment,” Lexa agrees, nodding. “Then it’s us.”

“Then it’s the after parties,” Clarke reminds her.

Lexa draws her into a hug. “Forget the after parties. I have other plans.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No.” And with that, Lexa presses a sweet kiss against the side of Clarke’s head. “Come on, we have to finish the show.”

She falls back, shaky and breathless as always--Clarke’s effect--and tries a valiant grin as she heads for the door.

“You’re a tease,” Clarke accuses, grimacing.

Lexa smirks. “You have no idea.”

 

*

 

With all the work that goes into it, all the set-up, all the millions of dollars, all the panicked producers, one would be forgiven for thinking that the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is a massive production that takes several hours to film, while in actuality, the models work for only around the length of the televised show, and the show itself finishes faster than anyone realizes. Five segments, six minutes each, with five to six minutes between segments for the models to get changed, then it’s over. But for Lexa, the end of that hour can’t come quickly enough now that she’s had her first taste of Clarke. Before her weakened knees can give out beneath her, she hurries back towards the dressing area to prep for the next segment.

An assistant waits for her near the dressing rooms; the moment Lexa comes into sight, the woman lurches forward and seizes her by the arm, dragging her along faster. Then Lexa notices Anya, waiting by the dressing rooms as well, prepped and ready for the next segment. The production assistant is too frazzled to inspect Lexa’s face, but Anya takes on look at her blown pupils and swollen lips and smirks so widely and so devilishly that she might as well have announced Lexa’s secret to the crowd--but luckily, no one cares to look at Anya’s or Lexa’s faces in the middle of a convocation of lingerie-clad Angels.

Lexa just shakes her head as she passes, trying for dignity.

“I saw her take your phone,” Anya singsongs. “Where she run off to?”

“You didn’t see anything,” Lexa calls back, grabbing the outfit the assistant offers and ducking into the dressing room.

“Sure. More importantly, did anyone else?”

“You didn’t, and neither did anyone else.”

Anya’s silence arouses Lexa’s suspicions--only half-dressed, she pokes her head out from behind the dressing room curtain to find her friend still standing there, still smug.

“Miss Woods, we have to get you cleared for the next segment,” the assistant whines, forcing Lexa back into the room and forcing a modicum of professionalism back into the moment. Not wanting to be the girl to hold up the show, Lexa hurries to get into the assigned outfit.

When she emerges, she’s standing tall, ready, eyes forward as if the runway stretches out before her. It has everything to do with what she’s wearing. The lingerie itself is simple enough: green and silver to match her eyes, all lace, cut in the right places, plunging at her chest and low across her hipbones. The accents make the look, though. A web of jewels, chains of crystals and emeralds and silver links, hangs from her shoulders and drips down her torso to her thighs, highlighting every curve as if she’s glistening with water, a sea goddess emerged from the ocean on a summer’s day, a dream completed by the white wings the assistant helps her put on. The last segment of the show is always reserved for the raciest and most expensive looks, the kind to be featured in all the recap articles the following day.

The look Anya gives her tells her she definitely fits that part. Having not been waylaid by a secret girlfriend hiding in an electrical closet, Anya has already changed into her outfit, a white and gold lingerie set with gold wings; she looks much more like a classic Greek goddess, and together, she and Lexa are quite the pair.

_“Last segment, last segment, Angels, standby!”_

_“Everyone, to the stage!”_

Once cleared by the assistants, Lexa and Anya fall into step together, heading for the runway to line up. It’s then that Anya’s mischievous disloyalty rises again.

“So, maybe nobody saw anything the last time...”

As she speaks, a deep bass starts up. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage once more, Clarke Griffin and Miguel!”

That song. It’s saturated the airwaves lately--the censored version, at least--a deep and dark RnB hit about sex and temptation, made famous by the perfect blend of their two voices. She thinks about Clarke singing the song just for her, to her, on lonely nights when they’ve been apart for too long and she’s fantasizing about her girlfriend’s touch. Thinking about Clarke singing it now, on the stage, stirs that same hot feeling in the pit of her stomach. She clenches her jaw.

“...but will they see anything this time?” Anya asks.

Lexa doesn’t answer. Because, truthfully...she can’t be sure.

Time to walk.

 

*

 

The two singers are deep into the song by the time Lexa emerges onto the stage, and Clarke has changed outfits. She’s shed her chic, provocative black skirt and leather jacket for something much sleeker and classier: a short, tight silver dress that shows off her chest just as much as her legs, and Lexa can be surrounded by women in lingerie and still think that look is the most attractive and most risqué of all of them. Luckily, this time around, the song isn’t nearly as upbeat as Clarke’s first, so she’s not performing with the same vivacity she had the first time--if she had, Lexa isn’t sure how she could have kept her eyes off of Clarke’s body.

Now, Clarke stands at the far end of the runway, a few steps behind the other singer as he belts his way through the third verse, charming and flirting with the models to Clarke’s backing vocals.

Lexa’s heard this song a million times, but she can’t help the way her heart rate picks up hearing Clarke’s tongue wrap around the words. Her body unlocks, her hips swinging more freely, her strides longer; she can feel her gaze grow darker and more intense as she focuses forward on some indeterminate point in the distance in an effort to keep her mind clear; cheers rise around the audience but they sound a million miles away, nearly silent beneath the sound of Clarke’s voice...

Just as she passes both singers, the verse ends--Clarke’s chorus is next, but just before it begins, Clarke looks sideways at Lexa as she passes. Their eyes meet again. In that half second, Lexa thinks of how they had paraded down the runway, hand in hand, and then she thinks about the way she had tightened her fingers in Clarke’s long blonde hair and kept her there during their slow, open-mouthed kiss just moments before. She wants to do it again: tangle their hands or tangle their tongues, it doesn’t matter to her, but the desire to touch the beautiful woman on that stage almost overwhelms her.

But they don’t. It still leaves her breathless, but Lexa strides forward, throat dry, as Clarke hangs back and sings: _“I taste your skin in my wildest dreams, baby set me free, let me in, give me my darkest fantasy...”_

Deep and husky and breathy. The way she sounds at three in the morning after hours of touching and kissing and they’re still desperate for more. All concept of the fashion show has gone. Clarke’s singing to her, and only to her--and Lexa is walking in jewel-encrusted lingerie only for her.

When she reaches the end of the runway, she doesn’t hold her pose for nearly long enough before she’s turning again, searching for Clarke’s eyes. She’s just fast enough to catch them rising to meet her gaze, which pulls half a smile from her.

They’ve been in a long distance relationship, but that hasn’t prevented Lexa from learning Clarke during the weekends and vacations they can steal together. One look at Clarke’s face tells her that Clarke is just as hazy as Lexa feels. She forgets the crowd and forgets to perform as she sings, her slack jaw weakly forming the words as Lexa strides towards her, and all of her attention focused back and forth between her girlfriend’s body and her girlfriend’s eyes. _“My darkest fantasy...”_

Lexa lets her lips part. Secretly, privately, so that only Clarke can see, she runs her tongue across the edge of her teeth, curling her lips into a small smirk and inclining her head demurely so that she’s looking at Clarke from beneath half-lidded green eyes. Even from their distance, she can see Clarke swallow and narrow her eyes.

She knows she’ll pay for that later.

And then she discovers that “later” is right now: as Clarke finishes her chorus and Lexa steps past her, head held high once more, Clarke reaches out. With the barest of touches, she runs her fingers over Lexa’s side, tugging ever so gently at the web of jewelry and leaving invisible streaks of heat across the skin her fingertips touch. Desire ripples through Lexa, like the surface of a perfectly still pond suddenly broken by a stone. She breaks stride, she breaks concentration, she slows and looks back as Clarke moves away from her. It takes a moment to recover, and of course the crowd thinks it’s all for show.

_“I’ll see you in the five am light...”_

Lexa doesn’t know how she makes it off that stage.

 

*

 

_“Standby, standby, class picture!”_

_“That was amazing!”_

Someone pulls off Lexa’s angel wings. Good. They clashed far too strongly with the thoughts in her head.

_“You looked so good!”_

_“We did it!”_

All around her, the models mill about, giving interviews, winking at the camera, pulling each other into hugs and squealing while the producers attempt in vain to herd them toward the side of the stage in preparation for the final shot, where they all stand together with the performers and graciously thank the viewers.

_“Angels, stay together, back in your original order!”_

She feels like a ghost among them, shaky, thoughts consumed with Clarke. This can’t be over fast enough--her hotel room feels like a lifetime away.

And yet, Clarke’s RnB song has finished, at last. The deep, sensual bassline has ended and the crowd has begun cheering. Someone takes hold of Lexa’s elbow and pulls her into line--she hears a joyous laugh, it’s all fun and games--and then she’s walking forward, back onto the stage.

Upbeat party music booms from the speakers as the models walk out onto the stage, waving to the crowd, the stiff upright forms of their runway walks abandoned in favor of celebration that the annual event is finally over. They gather on the runway, arms circling one another, and look out to the audience. The flashes of the cameras are blinding, and the laughter of the girls around her nearly drowns out the music. In a whoosh, pink and silver confetti cascades down from the ceiling and explodes up from rockets along the floor, obscuring everything in a sparkling neon haze.

She sees Anya, a few feet to her left, and heads for her with the intention of wrapping her best friend in a hug. But when Anya spots her coming, she simply steps aside with a grin, revealing Clarke standing behind her. Hesitation is no longer an option, and it’s hard to be cautious when confetti is falling from the ceiling: Clarke and Lexa meet in the middle once more, throwing their arms around each other. And then Lexa begins to laugh--the relief kicks in for her too. They made it through. Despite Anya’s needling, despite Clarke’s appearance, despite that damn song, she made it through yet another Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, and Clarke made it through her first, and now it is time to celebrate. They hug like no one is watching, faces pressed into hair as they laugh with the joy of having each other once more.

 

*

 

As tightly controlled as the pre-show preparations were, backstage after the show is pure chaos. The producers, having got the footage they need, have given up on trying to herd the girls together. Some give interviews, others chatter about the food they’re going to eat, others run off to get dressed for the after party. Lexa loses Clarke in the mess--she’s certain at one point that she hears her giving an interview somewhere--and then she’s pulled aside for an interview of her own. The usual questions: “What’s it like walking in the show year after year?” “Anything you told first-time Angels before the show?” “What encapsulates Victoria’s Secret for you?”

She gives the routine answers, with a charismatic smile plastered on her face, because in truth, her mind is miles away and hours ahead.

Since she and Clarke won’t be leaving together anyway, for the risk of raising eyebrows, she doesn’t bother to find Clarke again once the interview is finished. Instead, she changes into real clothes--jeans and a blazer-- grabs her bag, and heads for the green room set aside for the performers. The members of the rock band from earlier lounge inside, but they’re talking to Angels of their own, and pay Lexa no mind. She finds Clarke’s bag in one corner: she sets a hotel room key just inside, where she knows Clarke will find it when she returns. She starts to place the note with it when she spots Clarke’s phone.

Curiosity gets the better of her. She types in her own birthdate on the lock screen.

The phone unlocks and a grin spreads across her face.

Crumpling up the note with the address on it, Lexa instead types the hotel address on Clarke’s phone, leaving it for her to find, before making a fast escape.

 

*

 

Somewhere in the city, raucous parties are taking place. They’ll be documented on every form of social media, they’ll be attended by a hundred different celebrities, alcohol will flow and cameras will flash and models will celebrate what may be the biggest achievement of their careers. It’s a hell of a party.

Leaning on the balcony railing and looking out over the dark city skyline, Lexa thinks of the parties and smiles: she wouldn’t trade this hotel room for a million of those parties. Not for the room itself--though a two-room suite with a balcony, jet spa, and Cal King bed is a nice coup--but for the girl who will be here soon.

She and Clarke met at a backstage not dissimilar to the chaotic fashion show backstage from a few hours before. Except, that time, Lexa had been just a fan at Clarke’s concert, with a backstage pass secured through Clarke’s manager, who wanted more exposure for her client.

She remembers the way her heart had hammered in her chest after the show. At that point, she’d been a fan of Clarke’s for four months; she’d followed Clarke’s career from afar, fell in love with her wit and intelligence during interviews, liked Instagram posts of her art, wondered about the meaning behind a picture of Clarke at San Francisco Pride Weekend. But nothing compared to the moment when Clarke had walked into the room, talking over her shoulder to one of her band mates, and then stopped short when she turned and saw Lexa.

“You’re the model I’m supposed to meet?” she had asked, stunned.

Clarke’s surprise brought a note of amusement to Lexa’s reply: “And you’re the singer I’ve been wanting to meet.”

Clarke’s lips tugged in a tentative, almost disbelieving smile.

They’d never looked back.

A weekend in London when their schedules overlapped. A few days together in Los Angeles. An all-night flight to catch Clarke’s concert. Clarke canceling a morning show appearance in New York because Lexa was sick in Miami and Clarke didn’t want to leave her. Clarke showing up at Fashion Week, at shows in Milan, in Tokyo, in Shanghai, in Sydney. A full week together when they’d scheduled a vacation for the same time, a private escape to Belize, where they lounged on the beach, they lounged in their villa, they lounged on a yacht, always together. Endless Skype dates, midnight phone calls, texts, emails, pictures. And somewhere along the way, they had fallen irrevocably in love. They weren’t together enough for either one’s liking, but the world would never be able to pull them apart.

Now that Lexa’s finished the fashion show, she’d asked her agent to slow future bookings. She needed more time for herself, she’d said. More importantly, Clarke’s career would be ramping up, and Lexa couldn’t wait to follow her tour with her, on the road, wherever she went.

And then, maybe soon, they’d look into a place they could both come home too. Somewhere permanent, and theirs.

The click of a key in a door raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Heart leaping, she turns and steps back into the suite, to find Clarke standing in the middle of the living room in her skirt and leather jacket from earlier, staring at her. They stand frozen for a long moment.

“So, you know my passcode?” Clarke asks at last, lips quirking.

“Yes, Clarke, I know my own birthday,” Lexa shoots back.

Clarke drops her bag and then they’re together, laughing between kisses, pressing every inch of their bodies together as if it’s been years instead of hours since the last time they did this. Every shred of weariness Lexa had after the show vanishes in Clarke’s embrace--she won’t waste this night sleeping.

“You looked...better than I was prepared for,” Clarke murmurs against Lexa’s lips when they pause to rest their foreheads together.

“Better than you were prepared for?” Lexa scoffs, feigning offense. Clarke soothes her with a quick kiss.

“You’re a lingerie model. I’ve seen you in magazines; I’ve seen you in my bedroom. You’d think I’d be more prepared to see you on stage but I...wasn’t.” She takes a shuddering breath. “Were you?”

“Some of us are professionals, Clarke. I’m more than capable of separating feel--”

Taken aback, Clarke raises an eyebrow at Lexa’s teasing tone. “More than capable of flirting with me on the runway. That’s called professional?”

“It certainly wasn’t amateur.”

With a groan, Clarke rolls her eyes and tries to push out of Lexa’s grasp, hiding her smile as Lexa grins widely at her own joke and keeps Clarke in place, tight against her. But Clarke is determined not to reward a bad joke, so she turns her head, pursing her lips to avoid Lexa’s kiss--Lexa simply gives up on trying and kisses Clarke’s neck instead, in slow, lazy motions across the scented skin until Clarke melts in her hands once more, leaning into it.

“Of course I wasn’t prepared,” Lexa mumbles, rising to kiss Clarke’s lips. “Your beauty consistently catches me unaware: when you’re writing, when you’re looking out the window on a plane ride and the sun slides over your face, when you meet fans and can’t understand why they love you so much. I’m never prepared for the ardency of my feelings for you and being on stage with you tonight was just another in the long line of moments I have considered myself incredibly lucky to be yours.”

She could say much more. Just as Clarke catches her off guard sometimes, she also draws forth an eloquence from Lexa that few others do, or have; in those moments when words pour out like champagne from a freshly opened bottle, Clarke always falls silent, preferring action instead. She kisses Lexa again, letting Lexa taste her smile and happiness, then glances over her shoulder to the open window.

“It’s a little cold in here,” she says quietly. “Can you close the window, draw the curtain?”

“Of course.” Lexa hurries to comply, wanting to get back into Clarke’s arms as quickly as possible.

And when she turns back, Clarke’s discarded her clothes and her skirt has pooled around her ankles, leaving her standing in the middle of the room in deep red lingerie.

“Fuck,” slips out of Lexa’s mouth before she can catch it.

“Given that it’s the night of the fashion show...” She doesn’t need to finish that sentence--Clarke, rarely concerned with competition, wanted to impress tonight, of all nights.

And to call Lexa impressed would be an understatement. Her lips part, her jaw falls slack as she drinks her girlfriend in with greed and sin in her eyes. She can’t believe the woman standing before her, with the shape and smoothness of a Classical masterpiece, is even real, let alone believe that Clarke is hers. Hers to touch, hers to kiss, hers to love. She is blonde hair and blue eyes, pale skin and red silk: the otherworldly palette of colors entrances her, hypnotically drawing Lexa forward. The smooth silk clings to the perfect roundness of Clarke’s breasts, and the panties were made to be peeled off slowly, pulled down over legs like the unwrapping of a present. Savored. The thought plays on repeat in Lexa’s head. Dazed and staring, she reaches a hand out and drags her fingers down Clarke’s arm, as if to confirm that Clarke isn’t some heavenly vision of silk and skin.

Clarke takes the touch as an invitation. Eyes locked on Lexa’s, she steps forward until they’re chest to chest and angles her head up, catching Lexa’s lips in a deep, gentle kiss. Lexa’s heart swells. She feels a surge of power the moment they touch--not just electricity and attraction, but real power, an energy, a fire far beyond confidence. She feels at once strong and ancient, otherworldly, like she could rule the world and burn cities to the ground, as long as Clarke is at her side. It’s exhilarating, and steals the breath from her lungs.

“I love you,” she whispers into the space between them when they part.

Clarke hums against her lips. “I love you, too, Lexa. Every time we’re apart just makes that stronger.”

“And every time we’re together again, it gets better,” Lexa replies. “I’ve thought about this for weeks.”

Clarke replies with another kiss, tugging gently at Lexa’s lip.

And then: _“Show me.”_

A command gladly obeyed. She had planned for room service, for champagne, for balcony toasts to their relationship, but with Clarke looking like that and begging for her touch, there is nothing Lexa wants more on this earth than to feel skin on skin.

Her hands finding a home on Clarke’s hips, she steers the girl backwards towards the couch. Clarke, pliant beneath Lexa’s touch, sinks onto it and Lexa climbs into her lap, straddling her, kneeling on either side of Clarke’s legs so that her height forces Clarke to look up to kiss her again. Lexa brings one hand up to palm at her breast, fingertips dipping into the cup of the bra; Clarke replies by spreading her hands across Lexa’s lower back and hugging her tighter. With the pleasure of being pressed against Clarke’s bare body, Lexa’s hips give an unsteady roll.

Clarke chuckles into Lexa’s mouth as they kiss, and that’s when Lexa decides to even the playing field.

Ignoring Clarke’s groan when she pulls away, Lexa hooks her fingers beneath her own shirt and pulls it up over her head, hiding a smile when Clarke’s dissent dies in her throat at the reveal of Lexa’s black corset.

Selected for tonight just as Clarke’s outfit was, Lexa’s lingerie gets the desired effect: Clarke’s eyes go hazy with lust as they come down from Lexa’s face and take in her body. Her hands drift up over the sheer panels, grazing along them--her fingers twitch once, twice, greedy to pull at the fabric, but Clarke manages to pull herself back and look up to meet Lexa’s gaze again.

“This almost makes the time apart worth it.”

Lexa nods. “Almost.” Then she pushes Clarke sideways so that she’s laying across the couch, and leans down to kiss her.

Her jeans come off at some point, one hand deftly popping open the button and pushing them down while she devotes her attention to frantic, open-mouthed kisses with Clarke--and once her legs are free and bare, Clarke and Lexa’s hips begin to move again, grinding against one another, not yet in search of friction but rather because the sheer pleasure of being together like this again overwhelms them. They lose themselves in it, forgetting about the passage of time as they revel in each other’s bodies and the special thrill that the sensation of the lace and sheer fabric against their skin brings.

Clarke takes advantage of Lexa’s daze and flips them, easing Lexa onto the couch before sitting back on her hips, straddling her. This is the clearest view Lexa has had of Clarke’s body since she first undressed, and she likes this angle even better--especially the sway of Clarke’s breasts when she gives a few tentative rolls of her hips, as if she’s riding Lexa.

“I didn’t bring the--” Lexa begins, regret in every word.

“We don’t need it,” Clarke tells her, leaning back so that she can run her hands up Lexa’s thighs, making the muscles twitch and clench. “I want to feel you, only you.”

She says it as if it’s a request for permission, as if Lexa would ever turn her down. Still, she waits until Lexa nods before she works her way back, settles between Lexa’s legs, and lowers downs to kiss along her collarbone. Clarke is a giving, generous, caring lover--all the same reasons Lexa fell in love with her, translated to her smooth, deft hands and the way she knows everything Lexa needs, and gives it to her. She traces her fingertips up and down Lexa’s thighs as she kisses across her chest, raising goosebumps and hot streaks of desire all over Lexa’s body, making her churn and roil with need with every touch so that by the time she’s kissing the strip of skin below Lexa’s corset, the lower V of her abdominal muscles, Lexa’s fingernails are digging into the couch cushion in a desperate attempt to maintain some control. Clarke, eyes dark and hazy as she looks up at her girlfriend’s heaving chest and slowly drags Lexa’s panties down her legs, wants nothing more than to give her everything she needs.

Lexa doesn’t know what feels better: the hot press of Clarke’s tongue or the two fingers that slip inside her at the same time.

Everything about the life of a model is controlled, maintained, moderated, constructed to ensure excellence. Lexa’s release isn’t simply about sex, it’s about being shattered out of the crystallized facade she crafts; she needs to be overwhelmed and blissed out. And Clarke knows this, which is why she works Lexa up quickly, her tongue and fingers moving relentlessly and unceasingly as all of Lexa’s taut perfection unfurls; Lexa clings to her control subconsciously, but before long, every fiber of her being is centered on Clarke’s touch and the deft flicking of her tongue. She loses her thoughts, loses all stature and stoicism, becomes a pliant creature of need as she pants at the ceiling, and when Clarke finally pushes her over the edge, Lexa comes with her legs shaking and her head tipped back--she shatters in one long, low moan, every muscle tight before she collapses back onto the couch, gasping for air.

Well and thoroughly fucked.

Everything is warm and dreamy--somewhere through the haze, she feels Clarke mouthing over her thighs, and her fingers seek out blonde locks. She draws Clarke up to her and kisses her swollen lips even as Clarke laughs softly into her mouth. Her eyelids feel too heavy to open.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, between heavy breaths.

“Lexa,” comes the smooth reply.

“No has ever done that the way you do.”

Clarke’s only reply is to laugh and press her lips into the side of Lexa’s neck; they squeeze together on the small couch, with half of Clarke’s body draped across Lexa, but Lexa’s limbs feel heavy and immobile, and Clarke is content to listen to the gradual slowing of Lexa’s heartbeat.

Only one thought keeps Lexa anchored to this planet, and it’s that she hasn’t yet tasted Clarke, hasn’t felt her girlfriend grind against her tongue. As an experiment, she runs her fingers down Clarke’s side--Clarke shivers. Her skin is sensitive and flushed already, desperate for touch that she’ll pretend she doesn’t want until Lexa offers it.

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers, “Bed.”

She shivers again.

Normally Lexa would follow closely, stumbling along with Clarke and kissing her neck as they move towards the bed, but this time she waits on the couch as Clarke slinks across the suite: it allows her to take in the full view of her body before she disappears into the bedroom, but more importantly, it allows Clarke to do the same. She’s sitting on the foot of the bed when Lexa strides through the doorway. Just as the long runway had earlier in the night, the long walk across the bedroom shows off Lexa’s body with every stride, her long legs, the swing of her hips--the commanding walk she’s known for. Clarke stares openly, want written in every line of her face, until Lexa climbs into her lap and pushes her back down onto the bed.

She wastes no time. Clarke has already made her come and she’s to the point of shaking beneath Lexa’s hands, so there’s no need for a slow build-up. She kisses her way down the column of Clarke’s neck, across her check, dipping into the cleavage as her hands come up to caress her breasts. Clarke does her the favor of reaching back and unclipping the bra, freeing herself for Lexa’s exploration--she knows it’s Lexa’s favorite. Lexa luxuriates in the heavy fullness of Clarke’s body, layering her skin with sloppy kisses as Clarke’s chest starts to rise and fall more rapidly. Lexa can feel the frustration emanating from her the longer she takes, but every inch of Clarke deserves to be worshipped, and Lexa won’t neglect that duty.

At long last, she makes it to the top of Clarke’s panties. As she did with the bra, Clarke tries to speed the process by pushing her underwear down over her hips; Lexa’s hand stops her.

“Leave it,” she says breathlessly. For a fraction of a second Clarke returns to Earth and furrows her brow in confusion--Lexa ignores that as she looks up and down Clarke’s body, lusting for it and taking in the perfect picture one last time. Then she reaches between Clarke’s legs to push the fabric aside and Clarke understands as the pads of Lexa’s fingertips brush the skin beneath.

There’s something so much dirtier about her panties being pushed aside instead of taken off, upping Clarke’s breathing almost instantly. Her eyes roll back as Lexa dips her head, exhaling warm breath against her; Clarke gives a satisfying whine for more and Lexa obliges, rolling her tongue against Clarke’s clit and making the girl jump. But where Clarke is giving and generous, Lexa is more determined, more methodical. The same way she had planned out a night of celebration in the hotel room, dinner and drinks, she had planned all the ways she would please Clarke and it’s not an agenda she’ll compromise on.

Having gotten to this point, she slows suddenly, making every touch count. Every touch deliberate: the slow pressure drives Clarke crazy, making her want more with every movement. She laps at Clarke in accordance with Clarke’s breathing, starting slow and steady, with a firm, deft pressure, speeding up as Clarke’s gasps get shallower and more desperate, and when breaths become moans, Lexa pulls back to kiss Clarke’s inner thigh.

“God, Lexa!” Clarke groans, eyes flying open. Lexa smiles up at her, then pushes her panties aside again and resumes her steady pace. “Fuck, don’t stop...”

Clarke gets to the edge much faster this time, her hips rolling against Lexa’s face, but despite the deep spike of arousal that sends through Lexa, she still pulls back before Clarke can go over the edge. She focuses her attention on anything else, on Clarke’s stomach, on her chest, on her inner thighs, deaf to Clarke’s pleas for more. They’ve been apart for so long; Lexa thinks of all the late night texts, the hushed phone calls, the pictures...she’s not ready to give in just yet after so many weeks of needing Clarke.

Again and again Lexa works her up and pulls back just before she comes--two, three, four times--until Clarke is breathless and begging and the taste of her is dripping down Lexa’s chin. Lexa slows again, looking up at the wonder of her girlfriend wrecked by pleasure: her head is thrown back, her fingers twisting in the pillows. A sheen of sweat covers her body, shimmering in the low light every time her chest rises with a gasped breath. Feeling Lexa slowing down, Clarke opens her eyes, and looks down to hold her gaze for a long moment. Her lips can’t form the words to plead anymore--everything passes between them in that silent glance and when Lexa drops another kiss to Clarke’s slick skin, the moans begin anew.

This time, she doesn’t stop: she works relentlessly in time with the shallows gasps and jerking grind of Clarke’s hips and suddenly, she can feel Clarke’s thighs tightening on either side of her and Clarke’s hand dropping to tangle in her hair, keeping her there as Clarke hits the peak and comes with one last choked “Lexa!” Her whole body tightens and releases and with that release comes a stream of moans and swearing and the sound of Lexa’s name, over and over again. Filled with warmth, Lexa stays where she is, working Clarke down with careful, light brushes of her tongue on the least sensitive areas, until at last Clarke jerks away from the touch, the sensitivity too much. Lexa turns instead to Clarke’s inner thighs again, worshipping like a sinner saved, then to her stomach, then to her breasts, until at last Clarke has recovered enough for Lexa to come all the way up and look in her eyes. They alternate soft kisses and resting their foreheads together as they try to catch their breath.

Words still feel far away, but they can manage one thing:

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Though the post-orgasm weariness tugs at both of them, neither woman wants to give in; they hold each other close, pressing lazy kisses and trailing touches against any patch of bare skin they can reach, and when they find enough energy, one or the other will reach down between her girlfriend’s legs for a slow, sleepy build-up to the crashing wave of yet another orgasm. They don’t mark the passage of time; it could go on for hours, for all they care. Every sense is consumed with the other woman, until at last, before either one realizes it, the heavy darkness of sleep overtakes them.

 

*

 

Lexa dreams of beaches--of brilliant white sand, of glinting waves, of laying beneath palm trees and shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun above. It’s so real that when she stirs and feels the sheets and pillows around her, she’s still convinced she’s on the beach, the sun is so bright. It’s only once she opens her eyes and blinks for several seconds does she realizes that she’s still in the hotel room, with the full glory of the morning sun shining through the window and falling across her face.

More glaring, however, is the empty white space on the bed beside her.

She doesn’t panic--it’s hard to do when she’s still half-asleep. The balcony door stands open, and when Lexa looks closer, she notices two feet kicked up on the balcony railing outside.

Not bothering to dress, she slips out of bed and pads barefoot across the room to lean against the doorway. Clarke reclines in a balcony chair, drinking in the sunlight, wearing just an oversized cream sweater and a pair of sunglasses. Based on her smile when Lexa appears, she’s wide awake.

“It’s 7am,” Lexa says, fighting a yawn. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Jet lag,” Clarke replies ruefully. “Which I know you don’t have. Go back to sleep.”

But the same truth from last night still holds: “I’m not wasting our time sleeping.” Jet lag is an old friend; Lexa can deal with a few hours of missed sleep for Clarke.

“In that case...” Clarke rises and glides past Lexa into the suite’s living room. As Lexa wraps herself in a short silk robe, Clarke reappears with a room service tray. “This got here a half hour ago.” She pulls off the silver cover to reveal an array of breakfast foods: after months of a pre-show vegetable and lean protein diet, the platter of pancakes and French toast and chocolate covered fruit in Clarke’s hands looks almost as good as Clarke herself had looked last night, stretched out on the bed in just her lingerie. Lexa is just as hungry.

“I love you,” she blurts out.

Clarke glows. “I thought so.”

That’s how the morning goes: the two women sit on the balcony with their feet up on the railing and the sun warming their bare legs, exchanging soft smiles as they talk about everything and nothing. They eat delicate slices of French toast and fruit and pass a bottle of champagne back and forth, topping off mimosas--they both pour heavy, so the champagne is gone before the orange juice, so they order a second bottle of champagne, and this time they run out of orange juice first and switch to straight champagne. The hours pass in bliss. By late morning, everything is hazy and warm and swimming as they amble back into the hotel room, stripping out of their clothes and tumbling onto the bed in a tangle of sun-kissed limbs and content sighs. Lexa’s heart feels full and heavy in her chest, a glass overflowing with love. Her head on Clarke’s chest, she traces circles on Clarke’s stomach and hums in her peacefulness.

“We should do this more,” she mumbles sleepily.

“Live like kings?” Clarke teases.

“Queens,” she corrects. “I’m coming with you on your tour, obviously, but after...”

“After could be soon.”

“Five months.” Lexa’s had the end date of Clarke’s touring schedule written down for months, ever since she found out her girlfriend would be the opening act. Five more months until their first extended period of uninterrupted life together.

“Or...one.”

That’s enough to make Lexa sit up, eyebrow raised as she tries to read Clarke’s face. “One?”

Clarke hesitates. “I know we promised not to put anything on hold for each other, but since you decided not to book anything so you could follow me on the tour, I decided to talk to the manager...”

“Clarke...?”

“They agreed to take someone else on the European leg. Since my own tour starts next year, I’m not really losing anything.”

Lexa can’t make sense of that; she can’t bring herself to hope and then get those hopes crushed. “So starting next month...”

“I’m yours,” Clarke murmurs. “I’m tired of dedicating sad songs about long-distance relationships to you. I want to be with you.”

As soon as the last word leaves her lips, Lexa is kissing her: one long, steady, motionless press of their lips, inhaling one another, basking in their intimacy.

“We’re going to have all the time we want,” Clarke tells her.

Lexa nods, smiling, then kisses Clarke again. “Where do you want to go?”

**Author's Note:**

> come see me at @ centuriesofexistence on tumblr! You can support my work, ask me some questions, find out what I'm working on!! Thanks so much for all the continued love and support <3


End file.
